


secret home I made and found a new way to breathe

by miranatural



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-18
Updated: 2012-03-18
Packaged: 2017-11-02 04:03:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 688
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/364768
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miranatural/pseuds/miranatural
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She remembers, standing in the Godswood, when her hand touches the rough bark of the Godstree, the first time she fell on her knees before him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	secret home I made and found a new way to breathe

**Author's Note:**

  * For [midnightblack07](https://archiveofourown.org/users/midnightblack07/gifts).



> Written for the Game of Thrones Kink Meme, prompt: "Jon/Sansa + in the godswood", for midnightblack07.

She never dared to imagine coming back. Seeing the cold stone walls from her childhood, from the times when she was still naive and innocent, a wandering mind full of stories of handsome knights and beautiful brides living in the world of honour. Summer child, dreaming of lands of eternal warmth, of the South, a place, where her wonderful future was supposed to be.

How distant this sweet child she once was feels now. Looking at the snow around her, seemingly melting but not quite yet, she feels strangely at home. As if, somehow, during the time she spent away from the North, in the lazy rays of suffocating, dry sunshine, the blinding snow somehow managed to find the way to her heart. To slowly but steadily built its bastion in there, raising thick Wall around it, covering the sweet green hills of dreams with its icy kisses, its ferocious blizzards uprooting fecund trees where her imagination lived. Giving her mind a crystal-clear clarity and sharpness of an ice sliver. Leaving no place for mercy or hesitation in the arctic desert inside her soul.

When Jon - or rather, Lord Snow, as it is only proper to title the Queen's husband with courtesy - finally came to the Vale, she met him as the proud Lady of the Eyrie, a true heir of the Northern Lords. She never spoke of the fate that met Littlefinger ( _Cat, Cat, my sweet Cat_ , he rasped his last words as she placed a red kiss with a needle on his throat, his manhood still buried deep in her); somehow, under her skin, she felt that he knew.

His eyes never left her face, not once, wide, wondering and deep, as she pledged her loyalty to the Queen. She felt Ghost's warm tongue on her hand as he promised to escort her to the Winterfell, where she would hold her lawful lands as the Lady of the North. Where the landscape of the outer world will reflect the one that filled her body.

She remembers, standing in the Godswood, when her hand touches the rough bark of the Godstree, the first time she fell on her knees before him. His soft gasp when she untied the laces of his breeches, freeing his manhood, kissing its tip, mouthing it lightly. His hand in her hair, not pulling, but caressing the amber curls that slipped from her braid, when she let her teeth lightly scrap him, her tongue pressing the underside of his cock. The dull thud of his back colliding with the tree when she swallowed him, his hands tensing on her neck confusingly.

He pushed her on the cold ground, his gentleness long forgotten in the sweet rush of blood in his veins, the soft whispers of the winds of winter filling her ears as he plunged into her, his face suddenly filling out her whole vision, leaving no place for the rest of the world. He moved inside her fast, panting, as if he was running away from terrifying nightmares. The blackness of his eyes and his hair shaded the bloody redness of the leaves, erasing all other colours from her surroundings, as the pace started to bring her to the edge. _Targaryen colours surrounded by cold snow_ , she thought unconsciously, _so fitting_.

She found her peak before him, arching her spine and clenching her fists on the leaves and moss, digging her nails into frozen ground. She laid under him, catching her breath, filling her lungs with brisk air, as he shuddered and filled her with his warm semen, Ghost howling in the distance.

(And when he kissed her, his lips crisp and cold, his hands leaving stains of mud on her cheeks, she didn't think of Petyr.)

When she looked at the Godswood crown upon her, the bits of clear sky visible through the foliage, lying in the heart of winter, for the first time since she could remember she felt she found a place she belongs to, no matter how damaged she is.

The first signs of Spring break the ice in her heart. Slowly. Painfully. And so, so achingly sweetly.


End file.
